By Niamh McAnally
Chapter 3: Saint Martin/Sint Maarten
Nautical twilight was just over the horizon as S/V Market Play approached the French/Dutch island of Saint Martin/Sint Maarten. At the helm, Logan Kane had just re-engaged the autopilot. His shoulders ached. He wasn’t used to hand-steering for that many hours but the horrendous overnight crossing of the Anegada passage had left him no choice. Now that they were in the lee of the island and the howl of the wind had eased, he could enjoy some quiet. Even Freddy, the obnoxious parrot they’d inherited in the BVI, had finally quit squawking. Logan knew nothing about parrots, nor wanted to, but as soon as they got wi-fi he planned to research how to make him sleep. He’d like to think, permanently, but—
“Bonjour!” Charlotte interrupted his musings with a smile and a glorious mug of coffee.
“Thanks, beautiful. Did you get any sleep?”
“Some. Can’t wait to see them.”
“I’m excited for you, too. Sorry it’s been so long.” Charlotte hadn’t seen her brother’s family since she’d agreed to the cruising lifestyle, but the pressure of having to sail in last night’s conditions just to meet their flight arriving from Paris today was not the kind of risk Logan wanted to take again. During those hellish hours he’d made up his mind that any future guests wishing to visit could either pick the date and fly to wherever Market Play was, or choose an island and come when he and Charlotte were already in port, but from now on he couldn’t have guests restricting them to date and location.
The sky peeled back the dark to reveal the outline of the island, then bathed it in an orange glow. Logan sipped his coffee. And when the sun crested the top of the hill, the waves sparkled in gold. These scenic moments made all the salty ones worthwhile. Just as he reached for his wife’s hand, the chart plotter beeped, Charlotte’s phone pinged, and Freddy flapped into the cockpit. Logan checked to see what had caused the AIS alarm.
“Là bas!” Charlotte said, pointing, “What is that?”
Logan looked aft. “Jesus!” A cruise ship was bearing down on their starboard quarter.
“Pretty box, pretty box,” said Freddy in his most unhelpful way.
Logan checked the plotter to identify the vessel. One of the Celtic Tiger fleet. Destination: Philipsburg. Crap. On their current course they’d intersect in 34 minutes. Nearest approach flashed between .25 of a mile and 0. He reached for the VHF and hailed:
“Celtic Circus, Celtic Circus, this is sailing vessel Market Play, Channel 16.”
Nothing. Except for the continual pinging of Charlotte’s phone. Logan tried hailing again. This time the captain answered.
“Market Play, switch channel 18.”
“Switching.” Logan clicked up twice.
“Celtic Circus, this is Market Play, we’re a 40-foot sailboat heading for Simpson Bay. We can alter and pass behind you. Over.”
“You’re OK. Hold your course. Over.”
“But that means crossing your bow. Over.”
“We’re slowing down, waiting on a pilot boat. Hold your course. Circus out.”
Logan stared at the mic. His gut told him it would be better to go behind the cruise ship.
“Char.” His wife was still scrolling through texts. “Char, l think we should be prepared to tack if needed. Char?”
When she looked up, he saw her tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“They’re not coming.”
“What? Why?”
“Baby Claude is in hospital.”
“What happened?”
“He fell off the table. His head is injured.”
“Oh, Char, I’m so sorry. Will he be OK?”
“They don’t know.”
“Don’t know, Don’t know, Don’t—”
“Freddy! Be quiet,” yelled Logan.
“Freddy quiet,” the parrot mimicked, then “Logan loud, Logan loud.” The bird hopped onto Charlotte’s shoulder as if to offer comfort.
“Ow,” she said, still not used to his claws.
The AIS continued to beep.
“Mon Dieu, Logan, they’re not slowing down.”
Logan was already calling again. A different voice answered:
“Market Play, it might be better to go behind us after all. Circus out.”
“Copy.” Logan slammed the mic back on the hook. If only they’d agreed to his proposed course ten minutes earlier. Now he’d almost have to do a U-turn. “Tacking to port,” he announced. “Ready about.”
As Charlotte relaxed the starboard jib line and hauled in the port, Logan spun the wheel through the wind and Freddy flew outside onto the railing as though he thought his body weight could assist the maneuver. Logan almost laughed but then heard something crash below.
“Oh, Merde,” said Charlotte, then grimaced, expecting the bird to parrot. But Freddy was too busy hiking out.
“What was it?” Logan asked.
“Coffee pot. Forgot to put it in the sink.”
“Oops.”
After they’d completed a double tack, wide turn, and settled on their new heading, Charlotte gasped:
“Oh, là, là! Logan!”
Now it looked as if they were aiming straight for the cruise ship. Logan switched on the engine to boost their speed.
“Don’t worry. It only seems close.”
“Non! I can see what they’re having for breakfast!”
“Freddy food, Freddy food.”
“Oh, shut up, Freddy,” Logan and Charlotte said together.
It felt like forever before Market Play moved far enough down the side of the ship to be able to cross behind. The wake from the huge vessel was surprisingly flat, but it created such a strong current that the sailboat was slalomed across.
When the drama was over, they both sat for a moment.
“Now what?” asked Charlotte.
Logan was tired, and ready to stop. But since they didn’t have to go to the airport anymore, there was no need to bother with the busyness of the Dutch side. “Do you want to keep heading south to St. Barth’s instead?
“How far?”
Logan consulted the chart. About four hours.
“Beurk!”
“Wait, there’s an uninhabited island halfway down, we could anchor for the night at… Isle Fore-choo.”
“I’ll Fork You, I’ll Fork You,” said Freddie.
“I think you mean Île Fourchue,” said Charlotte, laughing at the pair of them. “Bon! On y va!”
If you missed Chapter Two of Falmouth Freddy and the Cruising Kanes, you can catch up in our August-September issue (caribbeancompass.com/online/328-August-September-2023.pdf).
Niamh McAnally is an Irish-born former TV director turned author. She hosts interactive “behind the scenes” presentations to various groups and book clubs. To learn more visit www.thewriteronthewater.com.
